Immortal Man
by vero-rosario
Summary: If you've ever wondered what might be going through the Hunger Games' famous interviewer's mind, here is what I think it might be like.


How many years have I been doing this?

Ten?

Fifteen?

Twenty?

I've lost track. I've lost track of the years. I've lost track of the time I've spent onstage. I've lost track of the dozens of faces that I see every year standing before. And I've lost track of faces I send off to their deaths. I've lost track of the faces I've forced to live through others' deaths. I've lost track of the rainbow of colors I've worn through all of this. I've just lost track of everything. I've been around this too long. I don't know if I can't take it anymore.

Despite those bright and shining colors I paint my skin, I am the symbol of death. Because soon after some people see me, they die. They're killed to be more specific. All of them being children. Every single one of them. They don't have a choice in the matter. And frankly, neither do I.

While I can only imagine what it's really like for them to die, I am plagued with my problems. This entire week, this week every year for however long I've been doing this, I never sleep well. In recent years, it's not just that one week anymore. No one knows that though. And it's not like my face can show it. Those surgeries I'm forced to have to keep my seemingly eternal youth have its benefits at times.

But do I at least get to comfort those children before they suffer?

No.

I really, earnestly try to in the only way I can. I try to encourage them. I try to find reasons for them to live. I do with all of them. But it's pointless. It's all in vain. Because we all know most of them die. All of them but one. It's been this way for years. Every single year.

Except last year.

Last year was the worst. I met a young boy. No, not a boy. A man. A young man. After everything he's been through, he is no longer a child. But the things he did last year were unlike anything I've ever seen. When I was first acquainted with him, I knew he was different. He had a way with words, especially compared to everyone else I spoke with at night. It was easy to believe whatever he said. At first I didn't see the difference between him and the others. It wasn't until near the end of our conversation, until he revealed his personal tragedy, that I saw it. I still remember how the comical rapport we had going quickly fizzled out.

"So Mr. Mellark, do you have a girl back home?" I asked teasingly. Peeta Mellark, District Twelve tribute, sixteen- _sixteen _years old, a child- hesitated, then gave a shy shake of the head.

"Handsome lad like you. There must be some special girl." Some special reason for you to go home, for you to want to be the only survivor. "Come on, what's her name?" I pressed.

He caved in, and then sighed. "Well, there is this one girl. I've had a crush on her ever since I can remember. But I'm pretty sure she didn't know I was alive until the Reaping."

The crowd showed their sympathy for him. "She have another fellow?" I asked.

"I don't know, but a lot of boys like her," he said.

"So, here's what you do. You win, you go home. She can't turn you down then, eh?" If he made it home. His district hasn't won in years. Almost a quarter of a century now.

Peeta frowned. "I don't think it's going to work out. Winning... won't help me in my case," he said quietly.

"Why ever not?" I genuinely wanted to know why.

He blushed almost making me regret for asking such a question, then stammered his answer. "Because... because... she came here with me."

That line changed the foundation of the Games.

As I've mentioned already, I've been doing this for many years. So I know what happens behind the scenes. I know what the tributes do to prepare for the Games, for this interview. They have to put on an act. From years of experience, I know when someone is putting on an act. And that young man that stood before me, he was not acting. Peeta was in love with his fellow tribute, Katniss Everdeen. This was the first time in many years, if not the first time, that I've actually had to keep myself in check while on stage for the pre-game interviews. If I slipped up, it could have cost me my neck. Thankfully, I kept my cool long enough to finish the program, then leave.

That one interview solidified his survival.

Both of theirs. No one knew it yet, but it did. If he had never confessed his love for that girl, onstage, he would surely be dead. That interview also lead to everything else that's happened since then. The other tribute's deaths, the loss of his leg, the rebelling in the districts. President Snow believes it was her fault, her gesture with the berries, but I whole-heartedly believe it was his words that did it. It started this all. But the berries were only throwing fuel into the fire.

Someone knocks at my door. They come in without my permission. Then again, it's not like I have a say in anything around here. I'm just a piece in these games. Just as much as they are.

"Mr. Flickerman. You're on."

I sigh. "Alright. Thank you." I turn to my mirror and look myself over, inspecting the lavender I've painted myself this year. I groan and force a smile on the face that never seems to age. "At least this time around I'm familiar with every one of these faces."

That's a bittersweet statement.

This year is the third Quarter Quell, which meant a rule change. But it seems there was more than one attempt at bending the rules in this Quell. Rumors are running rampant that the President tampered with the cards written prior to the game's conception. But no one can call him out on this. Not unless they want to end up dead. But supposedly, he wanted Katniss Everdeen back in the arena, so he made it so Victors would be going in. It came as no surprise that Peeta Mellark would be going in with her. He was going to marry her after all, in a wedding here in the Capitol. Only there is no way both of them can come out to have that wedding. No Gamemaker will be bold enough to allow it. Not unless they want to end up like Seneca Crane.

"Treat it like any other interview," I tell myself as I stand up. "These aren't Victors I've gotten to know. These are all new people, just like every other year." And this is what I keep repeating over and over again in my mind down the hall to the stage.

I'm given a microphone, I'm put on stage, and I start things off as I always do. But there's something off about the atmosphere tonight. It's the audience. They are not pleased by the situation. As cruel as we seem about sending in people to die, we to become very attached to our Victors. I try to keep my back to them as they walk on stage.

Most of the tributes are being very passive aggressive. A lot of them are trying to make the viewers give them their sympathy, and right now it's very easily done. Some of them question the fairness and/or legality of this year's rule change, a handful of them act as they did when they first came; excited to get back in the arena, determined to win. In my mind, I'm screaming how deranged they must be. On the outside, I'm encouraging and delighted to hear every word that comes out of their mouth.

Then it comes time for the star-crossed lovers from District Twelve. I have to set my jaw in place when I see what Katniss is wearing. Her wedding dress. I heard the President was going to make her wear it, but I thought _that _was a lie. I peek over at Peeta and see he's in a tuxedo.

This has got to be a cruel, sick joke.

Of the twenty-two interviews I've conducted tonight, this one is by far the shortest. I have to spend a third of her three minutes quieting down the crowd. Then I only get to ask her one question before everything goes up in flames. Literally. She shows off her wedding gown by twirling, but it starts smoldering and transforming before our eyes. By the end of it, I know someone was going to pay for this. She has been turned into a mockingjay. The symbol of the rebellion the President wants no one to know about yet.

I quickly compose myself. "Well, hats off to your stylist. I don't think anyone can argue that that's not the most spectacular thing we've ever seen in an interview." And most deadly. "Cinna, I think you better take a bow!" Your final bow. Because this is the end for you. I have no doubt in my mind about it.

When Peeta comes up, I take comfort in the fact that nothing can top what just happened. Anything will pale in comparison to provoking the President. So it's very easy to slip into our easy give and take conversation. This doesn't last long. It's so obvious he's distracted. I'm obligated to pry.

I soon find out that they are no longer engaged, but in fact married. For once, I'm not entirely positive if this is part of the act, or if it's the truth. Yet I find myself asking a stupid question. "So this was before the Quell?"

He takes it offensively. "Of course before the Quell. I'm sure we'd never had done it after we knew. But who could've seen it coming." I try to answer the rhetorical question, but he keeps talking. "We went through the Games, we were Victors, everyone seemed so thrilled to see us together, and then out of nowhere-" He cuts himself off and looks at me. "I mean, how could we anticipate a thing like this?"

"You couldn't, Peeta," I say, trying to sincerely comfort him. "As you say, no one could've. But I have to confess, I'm glad you two had at least a few months of happiness together."

"I'm not glad," he says angrily. "I wish we had waited until the whole thing was done officially."

That's shocking. My eyebrows knit together. "Surely even a brief time is better than no time?"

"Maybe I'd think that, too." He looks at me bitterly. "If it weren't for the baby."

That is a flat out lie. All of it.

But the crowd doesn't know that.

The people are going mad. Audience members are screaming, crying, throwing fits. I'm practically shouting into the microphone, but nothing is taming the craziness. I drag a hand wearily over my face, but as it covers my mouth, I smirk just for a second, no longer than that because no one is allowed to see this gesture.

That boy is a genius.


End file.
